


Atlas Carnival

by chelonianmobile



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Horror, Body Horror, Freak Show, Gen, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles on the acts of the dark carnival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Midway

Bloodred ink on parchment rags informed you of the carnival, and tonight you follow your curiosity through the dark woods to the midway. Cold rain patters through the whistling trees. Lights flash and music blares, the white fence topped with the wrought iron words "ATLAS CARNIVAL". Flyers promise marvels and miracles in glistening red.

The tents and cabins within are mottled deep bluegreen, trimmed with seafoam white, flashing red and white and blue in the fairground lights. An emotionless woman takes your money, dark eyes flashing from beneath her white veil, and beckons you through to join the crowd's revelry.


	2. America: The Strongman

A golden-haired youth, lithely muscled, flashing teeth, bows and flexes, his cloak taken by a child who could be his brother. He lifts a pipe as thick as his waist, and bends it without a struggle, then twists until it snaps.

He taps a stone block to show its solidity, stands the child atop it, and lifts it above his head. He bounces it an inch in the air, and catches it one-handed, the child never slipping. He sets the block down gently, the child steps off, and the man brings his fists down, smashing the block into fragments.


	3. Sealand: The Boy of Steel

The strongman remains onstage, and his assistant steps forward; a sailor-suited boy, no more than twelve. The strongman raises a sledgehammer, and slams it into the boy's head.

The boy does not even blink or shudder. The hammer comes down again. A wooden staff, an iron pipe, the strongman's fists strike his body. He does not move.

The strongman lifts the smiling boy and climbs a stepladder. He raises the boy above his head, and hurls him down. A boom, a dust cloud, and the boy is sitting crosslegged in a crater in the floor, smiling merrily as ever.


	4. Canada: The Invisible Man

A whirl in the air resolves itself into a set of juggling clubs, red and white, thrown by nothing. The clubs are set down gently on the prop table, and a glass of water rises in their place, the water pouring into nothingness.

An axe floats up, and a wooden beam as broad as a man is chopped through.

A clapping sound. Fine glitter dust falls like rain from the ceiling, slowly outlining the head and arms and body of a transparent man. Sweet-faced, soft-haired, shyly smiling. He knocks glitter from the lenses of his glasses, and takes a bow.


	5. France: The Hall of Mirrors

A golden-bearded man sells spun sugar confections at the door, and waves away payment.

"Ah, the beautiful are in most danger here. Come back and pay if you can tear yourself away from my lovely mirrors this lifetime."

Mirrors do not merely plate the walls of the twisting maze inside. They form glass figures, flowers, trees, animals, all manner of beauty. You could indeed spend forever in here.  
Something stains a silvered rose, and you brush it away. You smell it and realise it is blood, even as the petal nicks your hand and adds your own to it.


	6. North and South Korea: The Mirror Masters

A round room, lit only by a single candle. The light reflects again and again from the myriad mirrors; walls, floors, tiny discs and crystals dangling from the ceiling. A single long black curl bobs as the smiling youth bows. The mirrors do not reflect him.

"Welcome, welcome! Did you enjoy my mirrors? All my own design, don't listen to Francis! But no, I mustn't brag; now you must meet the true Mirror Mistress, my darling sister!"

His mirror spins to show nobody behind it, and when it faces you again, a girl stands within it, the twin of the boy. She bows.

The boy shows a roll of ordinary tinfoil to the audience, then lets it unfurl to the floor. The girl steps from the mirror to the foil, and back. The boy walks before her, showing she is not a projected image.

The audience select cards for the boy, and the girl finds the right one every time. He produces a rose, and she uncovers its reflected twin, perfect in every petal.

You see a feral gleam in her eyes, loneliness festering into madness, and are suddenly very glad she is on the other side of the mirror.


	7. Seychelles: The Mermaid

Half of this caravan is taken up by a glass tank filled with murky water, the sand from the bottom whirled up by something moving rapidly. A flash of silver, and a girl leans over the brim, brown skin beaded with water droplets, dark hair clinging to her neck. She waves, and happily chirps like a dolphin. Flaps flutter on her neck and ribs, exposing red-raw flesh; you wince, before realising they are not wounds but gills. A silvery tail rises behind her, and slaps the water playfully.

She sings wordlessly, chirping and trilling, filling your heart with inexplicable joy.


	8. Prussia: The Swordsman

Swirling steel surrounds the white-haired man, his even whiter teeth flashing and red eyes glittering. A ball of yellow fluff rests in his hair, the bird not fearing the blade.

He slices apples midair, cuts a ribbon from a spectator's hat, catches the blade in his teeth.

The tiny bird plucks a single feather from its breast, flutters up, and releases the feather above its master's head. A flash as the blade flies out and back to the scabbard in one smooth motion, and the man's hands shoot up and each catch a perfect half of the split feather.


	9. Hong Kong, Taiwan, Macau: The Clockwork Triplets

Beneath an awning, two figures, a youth and a girl, stand atop a music box. A second boy, near identical, sits at a piano to the side of the box, glassless wire frames glued to his nose. Pinewood the colour of sweet milky tea forms their hands and faces, black silk their hair. The box gleams gold and jade and ruby, dragons and phoenixes twining below the dolls' feet. In contrast with the Chinese designs, the dolls wear neat Victorian English garb, black trimmed with the same deep jewel colours as the box.

The girl doll stands demurely, hands clasped. The first boy stands with his back to hers, eyes also closed beneath broad painted eyebrows, a violin and bow resting in his hands. The pianist sits bolt upright, hands at the ready.

A slotted steel box rests atop a scale in a niche in the mechanism, labelled "ALL DONATIONS GRACIOUSLY ACCEPTED". As enough coins from spectators drop into the box, it weighs down the little platform, and finally there is a click. The dolls' wooden eyelids slide open suddenly, exposing three pairs of brown glass eyes. They gleam, lifelike, eerie, sad.

The platform begins to rotate, click by click, the boy atop it sawing away on his violin as his brother's jointed hands strike the keys. A simple yet melancholy tune rings out from the instruments, the beat kept by the ticking of gears. The girl's mouth opens jerkily, and her voice is staccato and heavily accented but clear as a bell. The sound is clearly coming from her mouth, not her ticking torso or the platform mechanism, and you wonder how it was done so well.

_"You cannot see how much we long to be free, turning around on this music box that's wound by a key ..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Lyrics from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.)


	10. Romania: Mulled Wine

Strawberry blond hair falls in the man's eyes as he ladles hot spiced wine from a steaming cauldron. Your mouth waters at the powerful scent. His eyes catch yours, and a single snaggle fang mars his perfect smile.

"Here, come and try!" he says, offering a mug. You pay him, and sip cautiously. The rich sweetness of claret mingles with cloves and cinnamon, and it burns away the chill. He nods proudly as he takes another mug from beneath the counter and takes a sip himself. Hot redness trickles down his own lips.

His mug does not smell like wine.


	11. Switzerland and Liechtenstein: The Marksman and his Daughter

The waifish blonde trembles, soothed only partly by the stern man's whispered reassurances, as he straps her hand and foot to a target board.

Close up, you see makeup and careful costuming has been used to make him seem older and her younger. He is surely not old enough to be her father; probably her brother, instead. Her childlike appearance is part of the act. Vulnerability.

Blindfold, the man hurls knives hard enough to sink them half their length into the board, skimming the girl's skin. An apple balanced on her head is split in two.

The gun is a surprise. A semiautomatic rifle. He throws away the blindfold, and you see nervous sweat beading on his brow as well as hers. He takes aim.

Bullets rip through the air, striking the board, outlining the girl's body closely, right down to the gaps between her fingers. The shots come faster, the sound becoming a roar.

Finally it stops, the gun barrel smoking.

The board collapses, leaving only the girl's outline. The straps cut through, she steps away from the board. Her dirndl splits away, exposing a spangled leotard. She bows and beams, unharmed, and the Marksman runs to embrace her.


	12. Greece, Turkey, Japan: Cat, Wolf, and Fox

As you enter this tent, the sound of angry roars and claws on metal hits you like a wall. Two sturdy metal cages, one on each side of a stage, restrain whirlwinds of hair and teeth.  
The left cage contains a leonine beast with rippling muscles, standing hunched on two legs, razor claws extended, deep green eyes glowing with hate. On the right is a hulking wolflike creature, taller than the cat, ears lying flat over shaggy black hair, bandages forming a mask about its eyes. Broken fangs flash, blackened claws raise sparks from the thick bars.

Their snouts are blunt, their forepaws bear stubby thumbs. Rags wrap about their hips and shoulders. Their fur is thin except for around their heads and tails, exposing scars. They might both have once been men.

The sides of the cages rise, freeing the prisoners. You shrink away, but they ignore the audience in favour of flying at each other with howls of rage. You gasp, expecting blood to flow.

A bark, and the combatants back down, hackles still up. The spotlight greets a new arrival, short and pale and black-haired, clad in a white silken robe. This one is more clearly human, his most incongruous traits a pair of pointed red ears and a beautiful plumed tail. Tiny fangs dimple his lower lip. He extends his hands and hisses softly, and the two beasts relax and come to greet him, soft as kittens, rumbling in their throats as he strokes their heads.

The foxman sways gently to the rhythm of the purring, and starts to sing in a perfect human tongue, a waltz tune, soft and beautiful. You understand none of the words, but it brings a tear to your eye nevertheless.

_"... shinitai yo, shinitai yo, koko kara dashite kudasai..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Lyrics from Vocaloid's "Dark Woods Circus".)


	13. Italy Romano and Italy Veneziano: The Two-Headed Boy

The merry sounds of a guitar and two harmonised voices draw you to the next tent. Upon a stage, a figure dances.

At first you take it for two young men dancing together, but closer inspection shows only one pair of legs, one pair of arms, and one broad chest clad in a frilled white shirt. The two faces are near identical, but the similarity is distorted by their expressions. One smiles, one scowls, like a set of matched comedy and tragedy masks. Their single pair of hands works the guitar with practiced ease, and their voices twine together perfectly.

Looking closer, you see they are not quite twins. The right looks younger, lighter-haired and slimmer, and his eyes gleam with mad bliss. The left is more muscled, and his face is lined. The sole of his shoe is thicker, to bring their heights to a perfect match. His eyes are grim, as if he has seen things he never wanted to.

They were not born this way. The open collar of their costume shows a raised red scar between the two heads, and the faded marks of stitches. Over years, their flesh has grown together, binding them eternally.


	14. Australia: The Snake-Charmer

A spotlight illuminates a writhing mass of scales and coils in the shape of a man. One by one, the serpents slither down to the stage, revealing a tall youth with a lively grin.

A cobra, as long as he is tall, unwinds from his waist and stares him in the eye. He sways with it, and his hand moves to catch its venom. His wet hand runs over his tongue.

He opens his mouth, and the cobra slides gently up his chest and places its head between his teeth, unfearing and unthreatening. He strokes it, and takes a bow.


	15. Russia, Ukraine, Belarus: The Man of Ice

A block of misty ice rests centre stage, beads of water sliding down it as the outer layer warms beneath the spotlight. This tent is cold, your breath turning to fog in the air. A man with a grey moustache emerging from the deep shadow beneath his hat stands at the entrance, watching silently.

A dead-eyed girl in indigo velvet stalks up to it, black high heels clicking on the wood. She draws a knife, and stabs it into the block with a snarling cry. Her white face flushes pink as she hacks at the ice, her hands turn red and cracked and sore. Platinum blonde hair flies around her face, falling out of her hair ribbons, sticking to her sweat, as the block slowly forms the shape of a man beneath her knife. A man tall and sturdy, enveloped in coat and scarf. The carved curves which are his eyes gleam.

Another girl appears, tall and voluptuous, eyes cast downward in deep sadness, shoulders hunched as if to hide herself from the audience. Her clothes are plainer, neatly cut, and her face clean of makeup.

The knife wielder's eyes blaze with hate and envy, but she steps back, allowing her partner to embrace the ice statue. The tall girl rests her head on the ice man's shoulder, her arms around him, and water soaks her dress.

The ice beneath her hands turns from smooth cloudy white to soft cloth; a brown coat, a white scarf, black leather boots. The ice man's face warms to faint pink, cheeks flushed as if after a long walk in snow. Ice turns to light blond hair, and falls lightly over his face. Violet seeps into his eyes, and finally he takes a breath and throws his own arms tightly around the two women.


	16. New Zealand: The Androgyne

The brown-haired figure faces away from the audience, one long curl bobbing on the left side of its hair. A crimson cloak hides its body. It turns, sad eyes beneath bushy brows.

Its hands, the left smaller and bearing longer painted nails, unfasten the clasp of the cloak, and the cloth drops to the floor with a whispery sound. Tight shorts reveal an unbalanced pelvis, curving outward only on the left. A torn shirt covers one small breast, the right side bare and lightly muscled.

The clothes do not conceal the stitches, but the original form is impossible to tell.


	17. Austria: The Organ Grinder

_"Come down and join the circus..."_

Clear and gentle music sways and weaves through the noise of the crowd, working its way into your mind, from a contrivance part pipe organ, part calliope. Your pulse beats in rhythm, and your steps fit the beat. You watch the man with violet eyes, his immaculate clothing all velvet in the same shade, singing softly as he expertly strikes keys and turns handles on the peculiar instrument.

_"... your mother will cry, because to join the circus-"_

The crowd drowns his words out, and the song becomes a mere thrum in your bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from Vermillion Lies' "Circus Apocalypse".


	18. England & British Isles: The Sorcerer

A redhaired boy, maybe twelve, short, freckled, works the crowd. A thin black robe too big for him floats around him, fluttering in the faintest breeze. He performs simple sleight of hand, plucking flowers from his sleeves and coins from childrens' ears. His smile is fixed, and his face pale. The robe lifts in a breeze as he spins on his heel, exposing a silvery shackle on his bare ankle.

From his robe, he plucks a sheaf of tickets, and hands them out with flourishing gestures. For those at the back of the crowd, he folds tickets into tiny paper birds and lets them fly. You take one from his hand; the card is venomous green trimmed with gold.

You arrive at a tent, also green with ripples of gold embroidered over it, at the appointed time, and take your seat. The redhaired boy stands beside the stage, looking up in fear. Three figures in black wait above him, green sequined butterfly masks distorting their expressions. A short man with dark curls peeking from his hood. A larger, burlier man, what little of his face you can see locked in a scowl. A woman, long hair as red as the boy's. As they walk, silver glints about their ankles.

_"Santaara baadara uinzaana uonpaatourana intekantera ..."_

Smoke explodes from the stage, stinking of brimstone, and when it clears a man with hair of gold and an innocent smile stands centre stage. His eyes open suddenly beneath bushy brows, vivid serpentine green piercing you. The same as the eyes behind the masks.

He pulls crows from his sleeves, roses from his assistant's mouths (thorns bloodied by their tongues), gold coins from the air. A plume of smoke rises from the stage, and when it dissipates a coffin stands beside him.

The woman is trembling, gnawing her lip until a gag is shoved between her teeth. Between them, the other assistants wrestle her into the coffin, hints of apologetic expressions beneath their masks, and strap her in. The sorcerer reaches into his cloak, and brings out a heavy sword. The lid shuts on the woman's terrified face.  
Thunk! With tremendous strength, the sorcerer strikes the blade straight through the coffin. A shriek from the box drowns the audience's gasps. The assistants flinch and the ticket seller sobs as another blade goes in, and another, and another.

He kicks the coffin, and it falls to pieces, leaving the woman unharmed in the centre of the wreckage as the audience goes wild. Only her robe was cut, and the slits in the front fall open in an inverted pentagram shape, revealing green silk and sequins which glimmer blindingly in the spotlight.

The woman steps out of the remains of the box, shaking, white beneath her mask, and bows along with her fellow performers. The little ticket seller runs to her and hugs her, and she clings to him like a lifeline. Drops and smatterings of red besmirch her robe, the box, the blades, the floor.


	19. Egypt: Dead Boy

A child with a red hat and a dead voice calls the crowd.

"Come one, come all, gaze upon the corpse boy. Death would not part the veil for him and putrefaction stays its grisly hand…"

Within the darkened tent, your breath smokes and captures stinking myrrh. A shadow sits up within a bier shrouded in white, and sweeps aside the curtains with a bandaged hand. His face, when unbound, is fresh and young, his eyes pools of sorrow. No clouds of breath come from him, and when his hand brushes you it feels like a withered leaf; no pulse.


End file.
